


20th Century Boy

by PyrrhaIphis



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Conspiracy, M/M, The infamous foul mouth of Curt Wild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 23:20:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7990000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PyrrhaIphis/pseuds/PyrrhaIphis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Stuart wished that beautiful June morning could have lasted forever, that they would never have to come down off that roof.  But, of course, life had other plans.  Ten years later, life had some plans for Curt Wild that he didn't like one bit...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

21 June, 1974

 

            Arthur leaned back against the crenellation, basking in the early morning light as he watched Curt puffing on a cigarette and peering over the edge of the wall.  He could hear the sounds of traffic just starting to pick up down below, a faint reminder that the rest of the world still existed outside of the magical bubble they had created on this rooftop, just for the two of them.  Selfishly, he wished the rest of the world would go away forever, so they could always be alone.

            “You know, I kind of envy you,” Curt said, as he snuffed out his cigarette in a niche in the wall.  Then he turned to look at Arthur, still hanging half his torso across the edge of the wall.  “You’re at a crossroads—a threshold.  You’re not a boy anymore, but you’re not fully a man, either.  You can become anything—anyone—you want to,” Curt went on.  “So…who—what—do you want to make of yourself?”

            Arthur’s head lolled back for a moment, and he looked up at the sky, as if seeking the answer there.  “I don’t know,” he admitted after a few minutes of silence, looking back at Curt with a sheepish little smile.  “I guess I’d like to be whatever you need me to be.”

            Curt laughed, and got to his feet, crossing the short distance between them.  “Trying to make me horny, are you?” he asked, a mock growl to his voice.  “You that eager for round three?”

            Arthur’s smile expanded into a wide grin, and he nodded giddily.

            Curt pulled him into his arms and started kissing him.  The heat of his body made the warm air surrounding them feel tepid.  As Arthur strove to keep breathing through the kiss, he was nearly suffocated by the rich musk of Curt’s body.  His fingers fought to slide through Curt’s dishevelled blond locks without tangling in them, a losing battle.

            After a while, Curt’s lips moved down towards Arthur’s throat.  “What _do_ you need me to be?” Arthur asked, tightening his grip around Curt’s torso.

            Curt raised his head again and looked deeply into Arthur’s eyes.  “Just stay this sweet and beautiful,” he said.  “That’s all I want.”

            “Curt…”

            Rather than waiting for Arthur to say anything else, Curt resumed kissing him, holding his waist tightly with one hand, and using the other to caress his bum inside his trousers.  Even if the moment had lasted forever, Arthur would never have tired of it.

            But it didn’t get to last very long at all.

            The door to the roof banged open, and a number of voices with American accents began to shout, their words overlapping and obscuring each other.

            Curt released Arthur’s lips, and turned to look at the door, then flipped off the people calling his name.  “Piss off,” he snarled.  “I’m busy!”

            “What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?!” one of the interlopers demanded.  Looking over at them, Arthur realized they were Curt’s band, the Rats, and they all looked quite cross.

            The Rats came up close to them, and started looking at Arthur so closely that he wanted to hide his face against Curt’s chest until they went away.  “Shit, you’re gonna go to jail for sure this time,” the drummer said, in a low voice.

            “Don’t be an asshole,” Curt laughed.  “What would I go to jail for?  I’m not even high!”

            “That’s a first,” one of the guitarists muttered.  “But there’s no way that kid’s legal!  No one saw you coming up here with him, did they?”

            “What…?  Of course he’s—you’re eighteen, right, Arthur?” Curt asked, looking at him.  There was a wavering in his voice that made Arthur’s stomach start knotting up.

            How was he supposed to answer a question like that?

            “Eighteen?” the other guitarist repeated.  “Curt, this is England, land of the prudes!  He’d have to be _twenty-one_ for this to be legal!  And there is no fucking way that kid is twenty-one!”

            “But…”  Curt’s expression turned so helpless that Arthur wished he had some way to protect him.  But what could he do?  He couldn’t change the law, and he couldn’t magically gain four years in an instant, though he’d gladly do either—or both—if he could.

            Curt’s grip on Arthur loosened, and the Rats seized on the opportunity, pulling them apart.  “C’mon, let’s get outta here,” the drummer urged.

            “Leggo of me!” Curt snarled, but his bandmates didn’t listen.  They dragged him back towards the door, though he was struggling and growling like a wolf.

            Arthur was stunned for a moment or two, then he quickly grabbed up Curt’s discarded jacket, as well as his own shirts, and hurried after them.  There had to be a way he could talk the Rats into not separating them!

            He hadn’t half caught up to them when another man emerged onto the roof.  Middle-aged, portly, with a curling moustache like the villain in an old time serial, wearing a pink silk suit.  “Ah, good, you’ve found him,” the man said, with a self-satisfied chuckle.  He spoke in the posh accent of someone who had been born into the kind of wealthy family that could call ‘round to Buckingham Palace for tea without waiting to be invited.  “Get him back to the hotel.”

            “You don’t get to run my fucking life, you—” Curt started screaming at him, but his words were cut off when the door was shut behind them as the Rats pulled him back inside the building.

            The man in the pink suit turned an unnervingly cheerful smile towards Arthur, and walked over to him.  Instinctively, Arthur lifted his hands in front of his chest, using the garments in his hands to hide himself.

            “Ah, thank you, lad,” the man said, as he snatched Curt’s jacket out of Arthur’s hands.

            “Th-that’s Curt’s!” Arthur exclaimed.

            “Yes, I know, and I’ll return it to him,” the man assured him, draping the coat over one shoulder as though it was a towel.  “Now, about _you_ ,” he continued, his smile turning cold and terrifying.

            “Who—who _are_ you?” Arthur demanded, backing away.

            The man laughed, and actually twirled one end of his moustache between his fingers.  “Oh, do forgive my manners.  I’m Randall Tunne, currently representing the musical career of one Curt Wild.”  A tight-lipped smile covered his face below the moustache.  “And you, my young lad, are going to tell everyone that you’ve never even laid eyes on my client.”

            “I’m not gonna lie!” Arthur insisted.  “Even if you’re runnin' his career, you don’t get to run his life!”

            “Cute.  Like a little parrot.”  Tunne chuckled grimly.  “But my client does not need any more pets than he already has.”

            “Pets?”

            “Oh, you’re not the first pretty young fan he’s dallied with,”  Tunne assured him, “and quite frankly the act cannot support yet another hanger-on.”  He shook his head.  “More importantly, the girls have all been over sixteen.  Nice and legal.  _You_ , on the other hand…well, that is exactly why you’re going to insist—in court if need be—that you’ve never so much as spoken with my client.”

            “I won’t.”

            “I think you will,” Tunne replied, fetching a billfold out of his jacket.  He pulled out a half dozen notes, and fanned them out in front of Arthur’s face.  “You’ve never met my client,” he insisted.

            “I don’t want your money,” Arthur said coldly.  If there was one thing he _never_ wanted to be, it was a prostitute!

            “Not enough?”  Tunne pulled out as many more bills, and waved them back and forth.  “All you have to do is say it.  You’ve never said a word to Curt, and he’s never even looked at you.”

            “I don’t want your money,” Arthur repeated.  “I just want to be with Curt.”

            “That is something you can _never_ be,” Tunne told him.  He pulled out even more bills, folded them over, and used a gold clip to fasten them together.  “This should keep you in frocks and drugs for at least a month or two,” he chirped, then tucked the bundle into the front pocket of Arthur’s trousers.

            As Tunne turned towards the door, Arthur yanked the money out of his pocket as hastily as he would have if it had been molten lead.  “I don’t want your money!” he screamed, throwing the bundle at Tunne’s receding form.  But the door closed behind him before the money reached, and it struck the wood, then fell to the roof, the golden clip making a faint tinkling sound as it landed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if any inappropriate Americanisms have gotten in here, so I can fix them. Thanks!


	2. Chapter 2

            It hadn’t seemed too alarming last night.  Of course someone so pretty couldn’t fail to get picked up at a concert.  Ray had been a little hurt that Arthur had run off for a bit of fun without them—and he was sure the others felt the same way—but he hadn’t been _worried_.  They had all expressed their certainty that the boy would come home in the wee hours, a little hung over, a little embarrassed, but with quite the tale to tell.  Given his tastes, he had probably snuck off with one of the other acts, after all.

            But that was last night.

            When morning came and Arthur hadn’t returned, nothing felt right in the flat.  Their own private sun was missing; how was the day supposed to start without his cheery smile?

            Everyone put on a brave front, of course.  Malcolm suggested that Arthur would probably be back within the hour, and Billy laughed that they should check the doorways, because he’d probably passed out on the way home.  Pearl said that lonely divorcée next door might have made off with him.

            But he didn’t come back within the hour, and the doorways were Arthur-free.  The divorcée hadn’t seen him.  Neither had anyone else.

            No one wanted to admit quite how panicked they were feeling.  Or maybe Ray was the only one who began to fear that their negligence had gotten Arthur kidnapped or raped or murdered.  Maybe the others really did think nothing was wrong.  Even if the others weren’t as worried as he was, they were still just as eager to go out searching for him.

            They made their way towards the club where the concert had been held, asking around if anyone had seen Arthur, showing his photo to whoever was willing to talk to such an odd-looking group.  A lot of Londoners still wouldn’t talk to a group of men in make-up and women’s blouses, after all.

            By the time the club came into sight, Ray’s hopes were dashed.  Not one person had seen Arthur.  Even among the few people they had run into who had been at the concert, no one had seen him.  Had something terrible truly happened to him?

            A commotion started at the door of the club shortly before they got there.  The Rats were dragging Curt Wild—shirtless, unshaven and reeking of sex and cigarettes—out of the club.  He was screaming obscenities at them all the while.

            “Will you just shut the fuck up?” one of the Rats demanded.  “This is your own fault!”

            “Let me go back,” Curt pleaded.  “At least let me get his phone number!”

            “I liked this gig a lot better when it was just the drugs and the drinking,” another of the Rats grumbled, making the other two nod.

            “You don’t understand!” Curt exclaimed, practically in a whine.  “That was the best lay of my life!  I can’t just leave!”

            “Idiot!” the third Rat snapped.  “You wanna find out what it’s like in an English prison?  ‘Cause I don’t!  If we let you go back, we’d probably be guilty of aiding and abetting or some shit.  I am _not_ going to jail just because you’ve got a yen to fuck teenage boys.”

            “That’s not it!  He’s special—different!”

            “Next time you wanna commit statutory rape, at least have the decency to do it _inside_ ,” the first Rat added, shaking his head.  “What if someone saw you two going at it?”

            Curt started screaming at them again, alternating insults with desperate pleas.  He only stopped when the door to the club opened, and a heavy-set man in a pink suit came out, with Curt’s jacket in his hands.

            “It’s a done deal,” the man said, with a smirk.  “Now, let’s get you clean and sobered up,” he added, holding out the jacket to Curt as the Rats released him.

            “I’m completely sober,” Curt insisted, grabbing his jacket back.

            “Then why were you up on a rooftop all by yourself all night?” the man in the pink suit retorted, with a sadistic grin.

            “You piece of shit!  What did you do?!”

            “I didn’t do a thing.  Now, back to the hotel with you, and maybe I’ll let you have a little of your precious heroin.”

            “I’m done with that,” Curt claimed.

            The man in the pink suit grinned at him, a psychotic twinkle in his eyes.  Curt wilted away from that gaze, and allowed himself to be led away by the Rats.  The man in the pink suit waddled after them, pulling a thin cigar out of his pocket and sniffing at it like the cork from a £500 bottle of wine.

            For a moment, the four members of the Flaming Creatures could only stand there, staring in silence at the departing spectacle.  Then, as one, they ran for the door into the club.

            Ignoring the few people inside who were still trying to clean up last night’s mess, they ran for the stairs up to the roof.  When they emerged on the rooftop, it appeared to be deserted.

            But there was a weak, shaking sound coming from around a corner.  Following it, they found Arthur sitting on the ground in only his trousers, hugging his knees and crying.  Ray set out running immediately, and knelt by his side.  Malcolm was kneeling at his other side within seconds.

            “What’s wrong?” Ray asked.

            “What happened?” Malcolm asked at the same time.

            Arthur looked at them through eyelashes that were weighed down by tears, then poured out the story of everything that had happened the night before.  Sneaking backstage to meet Curt Wild, then following him up to the rooftop, where the predictable had happened with the haste one would expect from someone like Curt Wild.  But when the morning came…

            “What…what if that’s really all he thinks of me?” Arthur wailed.  For all the living he had done in the six months since he came to London and moved in with them, he was still a child in so many ways…  “I don’t want him to think I’m a whore!”

            “I guarantee he doesn’t think that,” Malcolm assured him, stroking his hair gently.  “No one would think that.”

            “Shite, is this solid gold?” Billy’s voice suddenly asked, from back near the door.  “There’s a pearl the size of a rosebud on this thing!”

            “Let’s get you back home and cleaned up,” Ray suggested, setting a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.  “Once you’ve got some food in you, then we’ll figure out what to do next.”

            It took a few more minutes of cajoling before Arthur finally agreed to go home again.

            They made a very sombre fivesome as they returned to the flat.  Arthur was still fighting off tears, and Ray felt rather like crying himself, for an opposite reason.

            Their beautiful little boyfriend wasn’t going to want to go back to any of their beds again after having experienced Curt Wild, was he?

            Maybe it was selfish of him to worry about that, but he doubted the others had much else on their minds, either.

            Once Arthur was safely in the shower, the four members of the band sat down around the table, and Billy set the clip with the money down in between them.  “There’s enough cash there to pay our rent for the next three months.  Probably six months more if we sell the clip.”

            “Six?” Pearl repeated.  “That clip’s got to be worth the rent for a whole _year_.  If not longer.”

            Malcolm sighed.  “We don’t have much choice, then.  But don’t ever let Arthur know where the money came from!  If he asks, we just got paid a lot more for that gig than we were expecting.”

            “But…” Ray started, then stopped, shaking his head.  “No, I guess you’re right,” he admitted.  Their gigs didn’t tend to pay much, after all.  And if Jack Fairy himself had declared that glam rock was dead…they were about to start earning even less.  “I just don’t like lying to him.”

            “None of us do,” Billy agreed.  “But if we don’t pay the rent, we’ll be out on the street, yeah?  Don’t want that.”

            “Of course, that still leaves the other question,” Malcolm sighed.  “What are we going to tell him about Curt Wild?”

            “Might as well just let him see for himself,” Pearl said, picking up the morning’s paper.  It was a brief piece, but it said very clearly that Curt Wild was returning to America to do a tour there with Jack Fairy, promoting their new album.

            And it quoted Curt as saying that he never wanted to return to England as long as he lived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if any inappropriate Americanisms have gotten in here, so I can fix them. Thanks!


	3. Chapter 3

Feb. 2, 1984

            Curt took the last swallow of his beer, then idly strummed the strings of his guitar.  There was a tune flitting around inside his head—a new one, he was pretty sure—but he just couldn’t quite get it to come out through the strings.

            Maybe it wasn’t ready.

            Or maybe he wasn’t drunk enough yet.

            Well, he could fix _that_.  He set the guitar down on the sofa cushions beside him, then got up and headed into the kitchen.  As he opened the fridge and pulled out another beer, he scowled, wondering when he’d become so fucking domestic that he’d be sitting on a goddamned _sofa_ to write music.  Maybe he needed to sell this apartment and go live in a tiny hole in the wall.

            They always said you had to suffer to write great music, right?

            Of course, they probably weren’t talking about rock, but the principle had to be the same.  After all, when he’d written his best songs…

            …he’d been completely off his fucking head.

            That wasn’t quite the same as ‘suffering.’  That part came later, when the drugs wore off again.

            He didn’t want to go through that again.  Either part of it.

            As he opened the next beer and took a swig of it, Curt reflected that even booze had its own inherent suffering.  It wasn’t really any different.  If it was legal, why weren’t drugs?  Other than that it was harder to kill yourself with booze.

            Curt was still standing there in the kitchen, musing over his beer, when someone started pounding on the door to the apartment.  “What the fuck?” he muttered.  He hadn’t shelled out way more than he could afford to buy an apartment in a nice part of town just to have some asshole come and start pounding on the door like a damned loan shark.

            When he opened the door, Curt found three men in suits on the other side.  The two in the back were large and grim-looking.  The one in front was more slender, and had a smug look on his face.  “It’s about time you opened up,” the one in the front said, with a cold smile.  “I had begun to think you were fleeing for the border.”

            “Who the fuck are you?” Curt asked, trying to size them up.  They didn’t look armed, but they did look dangerous.

            “DEA,” the same man said, flashing a badge in his face for all of half a second.  Whatever that badge said, it was _not_ DEA.  “We’ve got a warrant,” he added, waving a piece of paper in front of him.  There was text on it, but it didn’t look like any kind of official document.  More like the text of a speech.

            “What the fuck?”  Curt shook his head.  “What would the DEA want in my apartment?”

            The men chuckled grimly, and the one in front stepped out of the way so the other two could push Curt aside, moving into the apartment.  One of them began to look in the kitchen cabinets, while the other headed into the living room, towards the sofa.  Curt ran after him, and snatched up his guitar, to make sure the suited man couldn’t damage it.

            “Get the fuck out of my apartment,” Curt told them.  “The DEA doesn’t do random home invasions.”

            “There’s nothing random about it,” the slender one assured him as he followed Curt into the living room.  As they both stood there watching, the large, silent man moved aside one of the cushions on the couch.  Without even trying to be subtle, he tossed a numbered evidence bag down on the sofa.  “Why, look what I’ve found here!” the other man exclaimed, lifting the bag, which seemed to be filled with cocaine.

            “You couldn’t have been more obvious about planting that if you had tried,” Curt sighed.  “Joke’s over.  Get out, or I’m calling the cops.”

            “We _are_ the cops,” the man told him, waving the evidence bag in front of his face.  “Drug Enforcement Agency, remember?”

            “Look, I’ve been arrested for drugs before, and it’s not the DEA.  It’s just the ordinary fucking cops.  Now get your planted evidence and phony warrant outta my sight, or I’m gonna make you regret it!”

            Heavy footsteps came from behind Curt, and the slender man chuckled.  “My, my, hiding it in _two_ rooms,” he said, with a sickening grin.

            Turning to look behind him, Curt saw that the other thug was holding another evidence bag, filled with needles and heroin.  “That bag’s got yesterday’s date on it,” Curt pointed out.

            “You’re under arrest,” the slender man said.  Even as he spoke, the man who had planted the cocaine bag clicked one side of a pair of handcuffs around Curt’s wrist before he could react.

            “Bull-fucking-shit!” Curt snapped, yanking his hand away from the man.  “You can’t just come in here and frame me like this!  I’ve been clean for years!”

            None of them listened to him.  The slender man drew a gun from a holster inside his coat and pointed it at Curt’s face.  Whatever was happening, it couldn’t be worth getting shot over, so Curt allowed the other man to finish cuffing him.

            The men led him out of his apartment, and they took the elevator down to the garage, where a black Cadillac with black-tinted windows was waiting.  They shoved him into the back seat of the car without a word.  The talkative one got in the other side of the back seat, and the other two took seats in the front, then took off.

            Thankfully, no one had seen them in the hallway or the garage!  Curt’s career was on the edge of failure as it was; what would happen if the tabloids thought he was being arrested again?  The only reason anyone was still willing to let him perform was because he was able to tell them that he’d turned over a new leaf since getting out of jail.  If they thought he was still the same junky he used to be…

            When the car stopped and the two suited men yanked him back out again, they were in a pretty crummy area of town, surrounded by ramshackle old buildings that looked like they hadn’t been properly maintained since WWII broke out.  At least that meant there were no paparazzi around to see it as those two motherfuckers dragged him up the stairs into one of the buildings, and into a third story office decorated with vintage baseball paraphernalia and still filled with furniture from the 1940s.

            The men made Curt—still handcuffed—sit down at the large desk in the middle of the room, then deposited their ‘evidence’ against him on one side of the desk.  “You don’t _have_ to go back to jail,” the slender one told him, with a smug smile.  “Cooperate with us, and you’ll be free to go.”

            “You didn’t even read me my rights,” Curt pointed out.  “Even the most lame lawyer in the world could get me off.”

            “Miranda rights are for the police, not the DEA,” the fake agent retorted.

            “There’s no way that’s true.”

            “It would be your word against ours,” the other insisted.  “Besides, even if you could be kept out of jail, think what would happen to the fractured remains of your career in the meantime.”

            Curt scowled.  He didn’t like the idea, but the man was right.  If he got in trouble with the law again, that was it.  His career would be deader than dirt.  Might as well go back to the trailer park and sign on to be a piece of shit like the rest of his family.  “What do you want?” he snarled.

            “That’s more like it.”  The suited man picked up a file folder off the desk, and pulled out a photograph, tossing it on the desk.  “Do you know this man?”

            The photograph was of Brian, in full Maxwell Demon make-up.

            “What the fuck…?”  Were there really people who even needed to ask that question?  Curt thought the whole damned world knew just how well he had known Brian…

            Two more photographs were dropped on the desk in rapid succession.  The first was one of those annoying paparazzi shots taken right after a kiss, and the second was of that dumbass stunt they had pulled in performing ‘Baby’s on Fire.’  “Do you still want to keep denying it?”

            “I wasn’t denying it,” Curt laughed.  “I was just confused about why the fuck you were bothering to ask.”

            “You know, we can add obscene conduct to the charges against you if you keep swearing at us like that,” the fake agent told him.

            “Yeah, that’s really gonna get a lot of attention in New York,” Curt chuckled.  “The judge’ll probably swear your ears off as he throws the case out.”

            The first man tapped the picture of Brian’s face.  “Now, tell me the truth,” he said, his voice as cold and hard as steel.  “What would you say if someone asked you where to find this man today?”

            Curt let out a howl of laughter.  “I’d tell ‘em he’s got a big, horrible concert tonight, shitting out the worst music of his career!”

            The men exchanged glances, then one of them picked up the bags of drugs, and placed them on top of the photos.  “Do you want to go back to jail?” the slender one asked.

            “Of course not.”  Who the fuck would want that?

            “Then the next time someone asks, you’re going to tell them that you don’t know where Brian Slade is now, and that they’re not to ask you ever again.  Got that?”

            “Why the fuck would you care?”

            “You don’t know where he is now,” the fake DEA agent repeated.

            “What the fuck are you playing at?” Curt demanded.  “This is kidnapping—maybe extortion.  You don’t really think you’re gonna get away with this, do you?”

            The man smiled grimly.  “If we _must_ do it the hard way…”  He reached into the folder again, and withdrew a lot more photographs.  One by one, the photos were laid out on the desk.  Curt’s whole family, the Rats, Mandy, and everyone he had dated in the last ten years.

            “So you’re some kind of psycho stalker…?”

            “If you won’t protect yourself,” the slender man said, getting out a red pen, “you should at least have the decency to protect _them_.”  He started drawing red marks like bullet holes on the foreheads of everyone in the photos.

            “Who the hell are you?” Curt asked, looking at the man with a growing discomfort, as he watched more and more photos of people he knew and cared about get inky bullet holes.  “Why the fuck would you be willing to kill to keep such a stupid secret?”

            “Who said anything about killing them?” the man replied, with a cold grin.  “I just suggested you might want to protect them.”  He chuckled as he finished drawing the red dots on the photos, then he put the pen back in his pocket.  “I’ll give you a chance to think it over,” he said, carefully spreading the photographs out in front of Curt, so he could get a good, long look at each and every one of those red dots.  Then he set the bags of drugs on top of the photos of Brian, and took up a position leaning against the door, where he started a methodical process of cleaning his fingernails with a penknife.  The other two men walked over to a small couch on the other side of the room.  They sat down and proceeded to just _stare_ at Curt.

            Curt tried not to look at the pictures.

            When that didn’t work, he tried to focus on the picture of his family.  On the thought of how much he’d _enjoy_ his brother getting his brains blown out.  How much his parents _deserved_ to suffer for what they’d done to him.

            It wasn’t very effective.

            His eyes kept straying to the other photos.  His friends, his exes.  Everyone he had fucked more than once was represented on that desk.

            No, there was _one_ who wasn’t.  Whoever these guys were, they hadn’t found out about that beautiful night in London ten years ago.  Well, they probably didn’t have arms long enough to reach England anyway.

            But…maybe that hadn’t meant as much to him as it had to Curt.

            He had taken the money, after all.

            According to Randall.

            Who wasn’t really the most trustworthy slimeball who had ever represented Curt.

            Not the worst, maybe, but far from being the best, either.

            “Have you made up your mind yet?” one of the men in the suits asked, breaking Curt out of his thoughts.

            He hated the idea of cooperating with these guys, whoever they were.  But was the truth worth dying for?

            Especially with the truth being so fucking horrible anyway?

            “All right,” he grunted.  “I’ll do it.”

            “Excellent.”  The slender man walked over and cleared all the photos and drugs off the desk, then removed the handcuffs.  “You can just wait there until the phone rings.”

            “Wait, you’re not letting me go?”

            “You can go _after_ the phone call,” he assured him, then left the room, leaving Curt alone with the two silent men.

Alone with a couple of hired thugs.  Great.

            Curt was positive the deal had originally been that he’d be released as soon as he agreed to lie about what Brian was doing these days.  But now he was being held here until some mysterious phone call came in?  Then what?  Would they let him go even then, or would there be even worse conditions piled on his head?

            He felt like a character in a movie, being nefariously abused by the villains for no reason other than that he happened to be a convenient pawn.

            There was nothing to do but sit there and stew about it, though.

            Those men were armed, and Curt was quite sure they’d shoot him if he tried to make a break for it.  And even if he got away, they might start hunting down everyone he’d ever known or cared about.

            It had been long enough that Curt had completely lost track of time by the point that the phone finally rang.  The men in the suits indicated that he should answer it, so he did.  What else was he going to do?  If he just let it ring…

            “Hi.  Yeah, my name’s Arthur Stuart, from the _Herald_.  Um, I was, uh, given this number.  Uh, I was told I could reach Curt Wild here,” the man on the other end said, making Curt’s gut clench up.  No.  It was impossible.  It _had_ to be impossible.  How could it be _him_?  That didn’t make one goddamned lick of sense!  But…how many people could there be with that name and that accent?  Shit…the situation had already been awful, but now it was a thousand times worse…

            “Listen,” Curt said into the phone, then lowered it away from his face, holding it near the mouthpiece, but not quite covering it.  He looked at the two men sitting across from him.  “What am I supposed to say?” he asked them.  As one of them got up to hand him a sheet of paper with some text on it, Curt shifted his hand to fully cover the mouthpiece.  He didn’t want those guys knowing he’d let Arthur hear that he wasn’t alone—that he wasn’t answering in his own words.  And the words written on the paper absolutely were _not_ his words.  Who the fuck talked like that?  It was politician-speak.

            He read off the statement, but he changed it from ‘I’ to ‘Curt Wild’ as he did so.

            If that was really the same Arthur Stuart he had shared that mystical sex with, and if it had meant _anything_ to him at all, then he surely would recognize Curt’s voice.  So when he wasn’t even admitting to being himself, that would have to be a clue that something was going on, right?

            Dammit, if only he could add ‘I need you to be smart and figure this out’ onto the end of the statement!

            But if he did, those guys would probably shoot him.

            Arthur tried to respond, but Curt hung up on him, glaring at the two men on the other side of the room.  What else could he do?

            They all three sat there in silence for several minutes.  Maybe they were expecting Arthur to try calling back?

            After ten minutes or so, the slender man returned to the room, picked up the phone, dialed a number, and said “All right, you can disconnect it,” then hung up again.

            Just what the fuck was going on?

            The fake DEA agent told Curt to get up.  He was certainly eager to get out of there, but he was a little worried about what was going to happen next.  If these motherfuckers thought they were still going to send him to prison…

            But they didn’t try anything funny.  They led him back out to the sidewalk, where the talkative one gave him a tight, fake smile as the other two got into the Cadillac.  “You’ve done your country a great service,” he claimed, pressing an envelope into Curt’s hand.  “But remember:  we’ll be watching you.”  Then the asshole got into the car and it sped away, leaving Curt behind, on foot, without his wallet, in a bad part of town.

            He spent a long time yelling particularly offensive words at the car and its occupants.

            Then he opened the envelope and screamed at them some more.  It contained only a single piece of paper:  a ticket to tonight’s Tommy Stone concert.


	4. Chapter 4

            Why the fuck had he actually _used_ that damned ticket?

            Why had he purposefully tortured himself by going to witness just how low Brian had sunk in ten years?

            Curt left as soon as the last number was over.

            He needed a drink.

            Actually, he really needed something a lot stronger.  Something that would smash his brain right out of his skull, and not let it back in again for days.

            But that would be…no, the last thing he wanted right now was to take that risk.  If he were to go out and score some drugs, those shitheads might see to it that he was _really_ arrested.

            Hell, that was probably what they wanted.  As long as he ruined himself by getting arrested again, they’d be able to rest easy, ‘cause he could blab all he wanted about Brian and no one would believe him.

            Well, he sure as fuck wasn’t gonna give them the satisfaction!

            But they couldn’t do anything to him for getting drunk.  That was legal.

            And as luck would have it, there was a bar all nice and convenient.

            After buying his beer, Curt headed into the deepest recesses of the bar, trying to find someplace he could be alone.  Also to get away from the fucking Tommy Stone poster hanging over the jukebox.  Goddamned motherfucker was everywhere.

            It wasn’t really a good bar for privacy.  Well lit and full of open tables like a school cafeteria.  Actually, it looked a lot like a grim cafeteria in most respects.  Except for the liquor.

            He was most of the way done with his beer when he heard someone say his name.  Fuck.  What was someone who could recognize him doing in a place like this?  Especially so soon after that shitty concert!

            Curt snarled out a bitter reply before he even looked over at the man who had spoken.

            Tall, thin, dark-haired, and really good-looking.  Kind of familiar, too…

            “I’m a journalist from the _‘Erald_ ,” he said.  Shit!  No, it couldn’t be….  “You were at the concert?  It’s just funny…’cause, uh, I was tryin’ to contact you, actually, about a story I was doin’ about an old friend of yours.  Brian Slade.”

            Yeah…it was.  It definitely was.  There was no questioning it, now that Curt knew what he was looking for.  Standing right there was that beautiful boy, all grown up.  Not quite as beautiful as he was ten years ago, but pretty damned close.  And a better haircut would probably put him most of the way back to his original glory.

            But…if those fuckers really were watching him…!

            He couldn’t even _talk_ to Arthur without them thinking the worst.

            Fucking hell!

            Trying not to panic, Curt found himself snarling out half a denial without even meaning to.  But Arthur wasn’t fazed.  More than that, he already knew the truth…?

            _Then what the **fuck** had been the point of that whole kidnapping ordeal?!_

            Curt tried to find some safe middle ground, something he could say without those assholes thinking he was dropping hints.  It didn’t work very well.

            And there was no way he could ask any of the questions that were burning inside him.  How could he?  If any of the questions were answered the way he wanted them answered, then he’d be putting Arthur in danger.  And if they weren’t answered that way…after everything else that had happened today, that just might break him.

            The only safe thing to do would be to cut his losses and leave.

            He knew what paper Arthur worked for, so once it was safe, he could try to get in touch with him.  He could find out the truth _then_.

            Curt got to his feet and slung his jacket back on, getting ready to flee.

            “That’s quite a pin you got there,” Arthur commented.

            Curt had to follow his gaze to know what he was talking about.  He’d forgotten he was even wearing the damn thing.  The green pin Brian had given him…fuck, what a joke to be wearing that _today_ , of all days!

            But it gave him an idea.

            As they made idle small talk about the pin, Curt took it off his jacket, as if he needed to be able to look at it to be able to talk about it.  Then, when they had run out of things to say, he handed it to Arthur and told him to keep it.

            If Randall had been telling the truth about him, he would.  He’d keep it without hesitation.

            If Randall had been telling the truth.

            “Really.  I couldn’t.  But thanks,” Arthur said, holding it back out towards Curt.

            Then he’d been lying.  He’d surely been lying.  Arthur hadn’t just wanted money from him.  It hadn’t been a mercenary transaction…

            …but there wasn’t much he could do about it now, was there?

            As Curt took the pin back again, their fingertips brushed each other.  The contact filled him with fire.

            Dammit!  He wanted to fuck him again, here and now, and to hell with everyone else!

            But if that happened…

            Actually, that’d get him arrested for indecent exposure long before those creeps could show up.

            At the far end of the bar, someone started the jukebox going.  How ironic:  right after witnessing the smarmy, self-righteous joke Brian had become, someone had put one of Brian’s _real_ songs on the jukebox.

            The song starting distracted Arthur; he turned his head to look at the jukebox.  A reporter’s curious nature?  Well, whatever it was, it was a chance.  A chance to send a sign.

            Curt slipped the pin into Arthur’s open beer bottle, and carefully slid the bottle a bit further away from him, to make it less obvious.

            Then he had to leave.  He didn’t dare stick around.  He didn’t know what those guys might do if they caught him talking to the reporter they had been so worried about.  And it wasn’t like he could tell them that it was an innocent conversation, because as soon as he got to the ‘no, we did it ten years ago’ part, it would no longer be innocent to guys like that.  It would become ‘sinful,’ and he’d probably get arrested for something, and then what?

            But it’d be okay, he told himself, as he left the bar.

            Arthur would find the pin, and he’d get that Curt remembered him.  That something more was going on.

            Right?


	5. Chapter 5

8 Feb., 1984

            It was about an hour before he’d have to leave to cover the President’s visit, and Arthur really didn’t want to go.  It was all going to be Reynolds crowing about how well he’d done in the Iowa caucus yesterday.  Despite that it was weird that he even _had_ competition within his own party, considering he was a popular incumbent.  He should have been worried about the fact that the primaries were more than a mere formality.  But he hadn’t shown any sign of worrying yet.

            Arthur didn’t really care, either way.  He had other things on his mind.  As had become a nervous habit over the last week, he began fingering the pin attached to his shirt just below the collar.  The antique— _possibly_ antique—pin Curt had slipped into his beer when he wasn’t looking.  The former love token Curt had in his turn received from Brian.  In looking through old magazine photographs, Arthur had traced its ownership back as far as Jack Fairy, but that was where the trail went cold.  And he didn’t know what had happened in the time between the last photo of Jack Fairy wearing it—late 1969—and the first picture of Brian Slade wearing it—early 1971—nor how or why it had been transferred between them.

            More importantly, he didn’t know why Curt had given it to him.  Did Curt remember him?  That seemed the logical explanation—he _had_ given Curt his name both on the rooftop in the sweet aftermath of their first session and on the telephone—and yet it still left further questions.  If he did remember, was the gift a sign that he really did think Arthur was a prostitute?  Or was he just trying to make him notice that something was desperately wrong with everything that had passed between them that day?

            Hoping it was the latter, Arthur dug out the notebook where he had jotted down the phone number Mandy had given him.  No, the phone number the bartender had given Mandy to give to him.  It was already suspect.

            But maybe it was genuine?  After all, that had definitely been Curt’s voice on the other end.  He hadn’t been alone or speaking words of his own choosing, but it had certainly been him speaking them.

            Arthur dialled the number, but it didn’t ring.  He heard a three note tone, then a recorded female voice said “Your call cannot be completed as dialled.  Please hang up and try again.”

            How had Curt ended up at the other end of a falsified telephone number?

            And who had put him there?

            Probably the same person or persons who had scared Lou into dropping the story.  Even though it would have been a great story, a real scoop.  Arthur had tried to talk the old man into letting him write the story anyway, but Lou wouldn’t hear of it.

            Why?  What was he afraid of?

            What had _Curt_ been afraid of?  Mandy, too; she had been afraid of that bartender.  But who would threaten people just to protect ‘Tommy Stone’ and his career from being humiliated by his own past?  No matter how he turned it over in his head, Arthur couldn’t make it make sense.

            That only made him frustrated on top of everything else as he left to cover President Reynolds’ visit to New York City.

            It was stereotypical:  he went to see the major sights, waved his hand at the crowd, and then gave a big speech with the Statue of Liberty _and_ an air show as a backdrop.  So subtle.  Like the explosion at the end of a brainless action movie.

            As Arthur had predicted, the main theme of the speech was his success in the Iowa caucus.  Reynolds also touched on his plans for his second term, but they were the same vague promises he had been making for the last four years:  essentially, that he would make life better for all Americans, all while lowering taxes.  Complete nonsense, but the American public didn’t seem able to catch on to that fact.  People, as a whole, did have an endless capacity for self-delusion, after all.

            Following his speech, the President held a press conference, and Arthur managed to get close enough that—if he was lucky—he might be able to ask a question himself.  If he could even _think_ of one.

            After a few soft questions about Reynolds’ family and about the upcoming New Hampshire primary, a female reporter in a sharp suit stood up, and smiled disarmingly at the President.  “Tell me, Mr. President,” she started, “when do you plan to do something about the AIDS epidemic?”

            Reynolds just stared at her for a moment or two, then smiled his most charming—and unsettling—smile.  “There’s no need to do anything,” he assured her.  “AIDS is a curse from God, a punishment against the sodomites.  A few non-perverts have contracted it from dirty needles, it’s true, but they’re drug addicts, so they, too, are being punished.  The disease will wipe itself out in due course.”

            Mutters filled the room.  Two years ago, that statement might not have raised _too_ much ire from the general population, but now?  Far too many heterosexual, non-drug-using people were infected to simply brush them off like that.

            Reynolds seemed entirely oblivious to the consternation he had caused, and signalled another reporter to ask his question.  But he purposefully selected a man who worked at the most conservative—nearly reactionary, in fact—newspaper in town.  “There are rumours going around that you’ve got something big planned for your return to Washington,” the reporter said.  “A grand ball of some sort.”

            Reynolds chuckled, and shook his head.  “Not a ball, my friend.  It’s a…well, I suppose you’d call it a convention.  Bringing together all the young people who have signed on with the Committee for Cultural Renewal.  It’s going to be quite the to-do!  In fact, my good friend Tommy Stone will be holding a special concert just for those young people, and performing a brand new song he’s composed just for them.”

            The President kept droning on, but Arthur couldn’t hear the words anymore, thanks to the sudden fury rising in him.  Was _this_ really how it was supposed to end?  Sell out and you’ll be a hero for the masses, but keep your integrity and you’ll be threatened by God-knows-whom?

            There was no bloody way he was allowing that to happen.

            As Reynolds called for another question, Arthur stood up and started talking, ignoring anyone else who might be trying to get the President’s attention.  “If Tommy Stone is a friend of yours,” he started, “then you must have some comment on the recent rumours about his intimate connection to the early ‘70s, bisexual singer Brian Slade.”

            A brief expression of anger crossed Reynolds’ face for just a moment, then he laughed a hollow, unconvincing laugh.  “I’ve heard no such rumours,” he claimed, and the conference moved on.

            This went all the way up to President Reynolds himself?

            No, surely that wasn’t what the look meant.  Arthur went over the facts throughout the rest of the press conference, and on his way back to the _Herald_ building.  Reynolds was just annoyed by the implication that his most useful celebrity tool might have some skeletons in his closet.  He couldn’t be personally involved in the cover-up.  That would be ridiculous.

            Arthur had barely sat down at his desk when Lou walked up to him, looking sombre.  “I’d like to speak to you in my office, Arthur,” he said.

            Following the elderly man into his office, Arthur couldn’t shake a feeling of dread.  Lou was usually the smiling, friendly type.  In all his time working at the _Herald_ , he had rarely ever seen the man frown.

            Lou sat down at his desk with a heavy sigh.  “I don’t know if you’re doing it on purpose,” he said, “but it seems you’ve got a knack for kicking hornets’ nests.”

            “I don’t understand…”

            “The Secret Service called me,” Lou told him.  “It seems you asked the President a question they didn’t like.”

            “But…it’s a free country…” Arthur protested.  ‘Sort of.’  “What about the freedom of the press?” he added, trying to chase away Mandy’s words.

            “It doesn’t count for as much as it used to,” Lou sighed.  “I’m sorry, Arthur.  I really am.  But I have no choice.”

            “You’re firin' me?”  Just for one flippant question asked out of sheer pique?

            “If I don’t…”  Lou shook his head.  “I have no choice,” he repeated.

            “I understand,” Arthur said, trying not to sound bitter.

            “Here.”  Lou held out a slip of paper towards him.

            “What’s this?” Arthur asked, taking the paper.  It didn’t look like a wage slip.

            “The name and phone number of an old friend of mine,” Lou told him.  “He’s the editor-in-chief at a little paper in the Village.  Not prestigious, but he’ll welcome you.  I already put in a good word for you.”

            Arthur nodded, and did his best to thank him, but it couldn’t have sounded more than half-hearted, at best.

            A new job was better than no job at all, he told himself as he went to gather up his belongings, but it didn’t seem right that he could lose his livelihood over something so petty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if any inappropriate Americanisms have gotten in here, so I can fix them. Thanks!


	6. Chapter 6

Feb. 24, 1984

            It had been more than two weeks.  And Curt hadn’t seen any sign of those fuckers following him.

            It was probably safe now.

            Flipping through the phone book, he found the number for Arthur’s paper, and dialed it.  A receptionist answered.  “I wanna talk to one of your reporters,” Curt told her.  “His name’s Arthur Stuart.”

            There was a pause on the other end.  “I’m sorry, he no longer works at this paper,” the woman informed him, then hung up the phone.

            “What the fuck!?”  Had he quit because of the Brian/Tommy story?  Had he been fired?  Had he been…silenced?  No, Curt refused to believe that had happened.  Maybe that receptionist was just fucking with him.  He dialed the number again.  “I wanna talk to the guy in charge,” he told the receptionist this time.  “Give him a piece of my mind about you just fucking hanging up on me.”

            “Sir, he’s very busy,” the receptionist said, her voice tight.

            “I don’t give a shit,” Curt snarled.  “I’m a rock star, you know!  You fuck with me, and I’ll tell everyone in town!  No one’ll ever buy your crummy rag again!”

            The woman on the other end of the phone was quiet so long that Curt began to think maybe she had hung up on him again.  “Please hold, sir,” she finally said.  Then fucking elevator music started playing through the phone.  Ugh.

            The music went away after a couple of minutes, but that was still a couple of minutes too long.  Then a man’s voice came on the line and identified himself as the editor.  “What seems to be the trouble?” he asked.

            “Your fucking secretary just hung up on me!” Curt snapped.  “No, but that’s not even it!  Why doesn’t Arthur work there anymore?!”

            The line went silent.  Again.  “Oh…you aren’t…”  A light, uncomfortable laugh.  “When she said you called yourself a rock star, I thought…”

            “You thought I was fucking Tommy Stone?” Curt asked, appalled.  Though his word choice made him smile bitterly.  Those days were _long_ over.  And they were _not_ coming back.  Even if he were to spontaneously return to being Brian again, he’d lost his looks.  And that had been a big part of why Curt had been fucking him in the first place.  Not the _biggest_ part, but…

            “I’m sorry,” the man on the other end said, his voice all too cheerful.  “You were looking for Arthur?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Are you a friend of his?”

            That was an awkward question.  “In a way,” Curt answered.  It was close to the truth.  Besides, he couldn’t very well tell him that he’d fucked Arthur ten years ago and was looking to do so again.  That’d probably make the guy call the cops.  “Where is he now?”

            “He’s working at a little paper in the Village,” the man on the other side of the line told him, passing on the name of the paper.  “It sounds like he fits in better there than he ever did here.”

            That wasn’t surprising.  But he’d better not be fitting in so well that he’d gotten a boyfriend!  Curt wasn’t gonna forgive that.

            Rather than call that new paper, Curt decided to go visit it in person.  That way, he’d find out what was really going on.

            It didn’t have a very big office.  Just a handful of desks in an open room, with a single closed office on the far side of the room.  Kinda like the newspaper offices in the movies, only a lot smaller, and a bit homier.  A couple of the desks were occupied, but most of them were empty.  And Curt didn’t see Arthur anywhere.

            Not sure what else to do, he went up to the closed office door, and knocked on it.  A voice told him to come in.  Inside the office, he saw a man in his sixties sitting at a desk.  Dressed like a fucking hippie.  At his age.  In 19-fucking-84.  There was a heavy smell thick in the air, too.  The old man would probably claim it was incense.  But Curt had smoked enough joints to know weed when he smelled it.

            What the fuck kind of newspaper was this?

            “Oh, thought you were one of my boys,” the man said, smiling at him jovially.  “What can I do for you?”

            “I was looking for someone.  I was told he works here.  His name’s Arthur Stuart.”

            The aged hippie smiled and nodded.  Then he got to his feet without a word and walked to the doorway.  “Hmm, he’s not here?  Odd.  Maybe he stepped out for a drink.  Say, Jess!  Send Arthur in here when he gets back!  There’s a good boy.”  He shut the door again, and went back to take a seat at his desk again.  “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing towards a chair in front of the desk.  “So, what did you want with young Arthur?”

            Yeah, Curt was not gonna answer _that_ honestly.  Not even in the Village.  “I’ve got a story for him,” he said.  Well, it wasn’t _entirely_ a lie.

            “Do tell!”

            Before he was about to say _anything_ else, Curt wanted to know just who the fuck he was talking to.  When he demanded the information, the old man laughed, and introduced himself as Tap, the editor of the paper.

            What the fuck kind of name was ‘Tap’?

            Curt had gotten about halfway through his story—and about halfway stoned from the marijuana in the air in that unventilated office—by the time the door opened.

            “You wanted to see me?”  Arthur’s voice was like a ray of sunshine.

            Or maybe Curt was more than just halfway stoned.  Either way, he practically got a hard-on just at the sound.

            “Yes, come in, dear boy, come in!” Tap exclaimed, gesturing him forward.  “Got a new assignment for you here.”

            Arthur walked up towards the editor’s desk.  By the time he came into Curt’s line of vision, he was staring at Curt, his eyes wide, a trembling uncertainty in them.  But the corners of his mouth kept twitching upwards.  And he was wearing the pin, right at the collar of his cheap, ugly shirt.

            “This fellow here has quite the story to tell,” Tap continued, oblivious to Arthur’s reaction.  “Go on, tell him what you told me.”

            Curt grinned, getting to his feet again.  “It’s about a major rock star,” he started.  Arthur let out a tiny noise, like a snort of stifled laughter.  “On the downswing, maybe, but still a major star!” Curt insisted.

            “What about him?” Arthur asked.  God, those eyes were boring right through Curt!  Made him so fucking horny…

            “It’s about him being falsely arrested, illegally detained, and threatened with prison and death, all to cover up another rock star’s dirty laundry.  Sound like a good story?”

            “Sounds like a great story,” Arthur agreed.  His voice was so _eager_ …

            “And you can provide an interview, or at least sources, yes?” Tap asked.

            “Yeah, an interview,” Curt said, without looking away from Arthur.  “Tonight,” he suggested.  “In my apartment.  Maybe over dinner.  Or after…”

            “That sounds perfect,” Arthur agreed, finally letting out that huge-ass grin, just like he had ten years ago.

            Hopefully, tonight would be even better than that had been.

            After all, this time there wouldn’t be anyone to disturb them.


End file.
